Free Rain Song by Alice J. Wisler Page A

choose that weekend to be away? Where is their family loyalty?”
    Ducee fits her glasses over the bridge of her nose. “No, Iva, the twins wouldn’t do that. You probably got the dates wrong. They wouldn’t miss a reunion.” For Ducee, not attending a family reunion is equivalent to not getting into heaven.
    Iva shrugs and moves the ashtray toward her plate, which holds half a slice of pound cake.
    I’ve already finished my cake, enjoying each buttery bite.
    “Tell us the menu for Saturday’s picnic again,” Iva pipes out.
    Adjusting her bifocals, Ducee reads as I sip from a cup of ginger tea. “Potato salad, chicken salad, honey-baked ham, corn on the cob, green bean casserole, egg salad sandwiches, iced tea, lemonade, and chutney. And Mrs. McCready will bring a few pies.” Mrs. McCready isn’t related to any of us, but like Mr. McGuire, she is considered family.
    Iva puts down her cigarette. “We are missing something.”
    Ducee looks over her page, shakes her head, and looks up. “No, I read it all.”
    “You didn’t say anything about cucumber sandwiches.”
    “Well, Iva, as I’ve told you before, you can’t have egg salad and cucumber at the same meal.”
    “All right, I got that theory of yours.”
    I grimace. Ducee does not think her Southern Truths are mere theories. She takes offense to anyone not realizing she is the queen of etiquette. But I have learned, over the years, to stay out of these sibling spats. I try to relax and sip my tea.
    “If we can’t have cucumber sandwiches at the picnic on Saturday here, then we can have them at the breakfast at Clive’s.”
    “Whoever heard of cucumber sandwiches for breakfast?” If Ducee were a rocket, she would be through the roof, halfway to Mars.
    “Clive eats fried oysters for breakfast. So he’ll let my sandwiches be on his breakfast menu.”
    “Clive will let you have sandwiches for breakfast?” Ducee sounds as if she is ready to march over to Clive’s small farm and take him down.
    “If we have the Sunday breakfast at his house, he will.”
    Ducee closes her eyes as though she is praying.
    We wait.
    When her eyes open, she says, “Okay, why not?”
    “What?” Iva’s cigarette hand is suspended in midair.
    Ducee lifts the cloth napkin from her lap to wipe her mouth. “I said, why not?”
    “Why not what?”
    She tosses her napkin onto her left thigh. “You can have them—cucumber sandwiches.”
    Iva gives me a wide-eyed look and quickly cries, “Write it down! In the book.”
    With great effort, Ducee flips open her notebook and slowly jots down a few words.
    Iva’s beam is so bright, I think I need sunglasses to shade my eyes. She gives me a light kick under the table. “Did you write cucumber sandwiches, thinly sliced, no skins?”
    “Yes.” Ducee sighs as she puts down her pen, picks up her napkin, and carefully wipes the edges of her mouth one more time.
    Later, after the dishes are cleared and washed, Iva and Ducee sing a few Irish ballads.
    Ducee’s eyes form tears during the last stanza of “Danny Boy,” and that’s when I head out the door to go home.
    All day I’ve wanted to sit at my computer and write to Harrison. Even during the sermon this morning, based on one of Ducee’s favorite passages, Matthew six, about God caring for the birds of the air, my mind was coming up with comments to make on Harrison’s latest email message.
    After Monet had deleted his picture before I got a chance to view it, Harrison resent the photo as an attachment with a note. His words on the screen made me smile and think, what a sweet guy.
Nicole,
Monet sounds charming. I don’t blame her if she deleted my picture after looking at it. She’s not the first. An ex-girlfriend of mine still throws darts at a 5 X 7 of me in her spare time.
If you look at the pond, by the lily, just behind me, you can get a glimpse of my Kohaku, my most gluttonous koi. I think he is guilty of eating the plants.
Harrison
    Charming? Monet? Harrison used